Alone No More
by Mirror and Image
Summary: [Complete] Quatre, Don't make any plans for Sunday. Trowa


**Alone No More**  
Mirror and Image

* * *

Quatre wished desperately that it was the end of the week, and thus the end of the paperwork. Friday would be nice. Maybe even Thursday. But no. It was Tuesday, and no weekend in sight.

"Why are weekend always so much more fun than weekdays?" he asked to the empty elevator that led to his office. He chuckled at how childish it sounded. All he was doing was wishing his life away. He had enough work to do without wasting time with wishes. The door opened and Quatre navigated the halls to his office.

Once he entered it he groaned audibly at the pile of papers, folders, and reports that had somehow appeared on his desk in the space of one night. It reminded him of Imonoyama Nokoru's desk in CLAMP detectives. Only he wasn't lazy about paperwork. His office was the same rich one his father had used. A large mahogany desk dominated the office with just enough room for a computer around all that paperwork. Resigned to his fate he closed the door behind him and flopped down into his large and soft chair. He went to turn on the computer and work on however many emails he had received, when he noticed a post-it-note placed upon it. Curious, he picked it up.

* * *

_"Quatre,  
Don't make any plans for Sunday. Trowa."_

* * *

Typical Trowa. Short, sweet, and to the point. Quatre quickly checked his calendar and was relieved to see nothing was set for Sunday. He intended to keep it that way. There was only one problem. That childish urge came upon him again.

"Now I _really_ wish it was the weekend."

* * *

On Sunday, one blond Arabian was wearing a hole all through the carpetry of his house. The pacing started in his bedroom, out down the hall, down the stairs, into the music room, across the rec room where Rashid watched, briefly into the dining room, around the living room, weaved through the library, and the traced the path back up the stairs, up the hall, and back into his room.

Quatre couldn't help it. It was already eleven thirty and there was still no sign of Trowa, nor any word on exactly what his plans were. Where were they going? Was Quatre dressed properly? Scratch that idea. Considering Trowa, Quatre was probably overdressed in his dress-shirt and vest.

"Why did he have to keep the note so vague?" he asked out loud.

"Because Trowa doesn't waste words," Rashid replied calmly. "It's not in his nature."

The conversation was put on hold as Quatre made another round of pacing. When he came back he asked, "But you'd think he'd at least be specific! Maybe at least saying what time he'd get here."

Rashid shrugged his shoulders. "If you were him would you?"

He thought about it for a moment and sighed as he left the room. "Guess not."

* * *

_:ring ring:_

* * *

Quatre, who was upstairs at the time, stopped in mid pace, turned on his heal, and come quite close to flying he raced to the foyer with boyish anticipation. He had been waiting all week for this. Rashid, who was closer being downstairs, had gotten there first, was reaching for the front door.

"I got it!" Quatre yelled to his friend. He knew it sounded childish, but he did want to open that door. To finally find out what Trowa had in mind for him and what the surprise was. He finished jumping down the stairs and Rashid bowed, prudent enough to exit the foyer so Quatre could be alone. Not to say that he wasn't watching from another room. He had taken precautions for cases such as these, after all.

Quatre didn't know that of course, being blissfully ignorant of how protective Rashid was, he was just relieved to have some privacy from Rashid. The doorbell rang again and Quatre took a deep breath, calming his boyish anticipation for at least a moment. He slowly opened the door.

It was indeed Trowa on the other side. Upon viewing him, though, Quatre realized that he was woefully underdressed for whatever Trowa had in mind. Trowa looked dashing, for lack of a better word. He was in a crisp white tuxedo, outlining his slender body and accenting his features. The midday sun shone down on him and he almost glowed. Quatre had never thought white a good color for Trowa, but he considered himself proven very wrong. The only color to the entire attire was the bowtie. He had no idea where the other boy had found it, but it was the exact same color as his eyes. Those soft, gentle olive green. Trowa's normally pale skin seemed darker against the white cloth of his tuxedo, and his hair was had a soft, silky quality to it. The bangs had obviously been combed with some care; it was not at all the same "ran a brush through it hastily" look that he'd had during the war. Every hair was in place, falling neatly down his face and pushed far enough to the side to see Trowa's other eye peek through. There was even a slight curl towards the end.

Quatre took all of this in slowly.

"Good morning," the other boy said in that soft voice of his. He appeared to be waiting for something.

The Arabian blinked, and, realizing he was staring. He quickly stepped aside, offering for Trowa to come in.

"I guess I'm going to need a change of clothes," he said, still in awe of how the quiet boy looked. Trowa was positively stunning.

"Yes."

Quatre raced up the stairs two at a time, indulging his boyish anticipation again, wondering for the first time exactly what Trowa had in mind. It was obviously going to be very different than what he would have expected.

* * *

Quatre soon discovered that he had several tuxes apparently. Before he'd even reached his room, Rashid had sent someone up there and laid them out on his king size bed. So when Quatre came in, he was more than a little surprised to see exactly how many he owned. He sighed and picked one at random. It was the standard black with white shirt and vest. He threw it on quickly and ran a wet comb threw his thick mane of hair. Looking in the mirror, he hoped he looked adequate for whatever Trowa had planned. In his eyes, he looked far too rushed for what Trowa was going to do. Straightening himself a little, he went down the stairs. Trowa was still in the foyer, obviously wanted to leave in a hurry.

"Is this okay?" the blond boy asked.

"Yes," the other answered simply. He moved toward the door and Quatre followed. The walked down the driveway to the rental car. The pair got in and Trowa turned the key. They sped off towards the day that the young circus performer had planned, whatever it was.

Quatre watched the scenery go by as they drove. He'd always loved the look of the desert. It always seemed so sturdy. So permanent. Even the greatest sandstorms could not destroy its features. It had always been something the young Arabian had aspired to. Forever golden despite the storms. A smile came a cross his face. The desert also seemed to suit Trowa as well. The mighty sand dunes stood as silent testimony to years of quiet observation. The sand buried its secret learned through watching and hid its true self. Only one of intimate acquaintance with the desert could unlock its secrets, could find the beautiful oasis it held for those only worthy of it and its treasures. Quatre wondered if he was worthy.

"So, where are we going?"

Trowa remained silent.

"Is this a surprise or something?"

Still no answer.

"Are you going to say anything?"

Silence.

Guess that answers that. Maybe he wasn't quiet worthy, but Quatre vowed to be so someday. Perhaps, someday soon.

They drove into the city of Baghdad. The young driver navigated his way through the streets with ease, and Quatre wondered if the youth had been here before. They slowly crept their way through the traffic and soon passed through the business district with shops of more modern build soaring above the little street market that congregated there to sell their wears. The young Arabian could see the Winner Foundation Building, tall and proud against the other, smaller towers of wealth. Trowa drove right on through it, however, and made his way to the shopping district. He pulled into a small parking lot and parked. Stepping out of the car, he motioned Quatre to do the same.

The weaved through the crowd as the roar of voices filled the blond youth's ears. It had been a good while since he'd been out at all, let alone among his people. He watched as mothers haggled with shopkeepers about prices; boys trying to steal some bread; and entertainers earn their dinner. All sorts of scents caught his nose, varying from spices to perfumes, cheap or expensive, to incense for people who prayed. Quatre couldn't help swelling with pride knowing that he was one of them. Perhaps not in behavior, but at least in heritage.

He followed Trowa down several streets until the youth walked into a French restaurant. More specifically, an _expensive_ French restaurant. Quatre marveled at the plush seats, thick carpet, and elegant atmosphere.

"I didn't even know this place was here!" he exclaimed, a boyish awe spreading over his face. All of his childish impulses came forth. The look of awe, the mouth dropping to the floor and the giddy giggle the escaped his mouth. This was wonderful!

"It's new," Trowa replied. "It's about a year old." The silk haired youth walked up to the maître de and gave his name. The man led them to a private booth, closed off to the rest of the restaurant. The booth seemed to be under a speaker, as French music could be heard quite clearly. A waiter came up and gave them the menus and quietly disappeared.

"Trowa, this must be expensive," Quatre stated as he opened the menu. Quatre saw the prices. Very expensive indeed. "Is the circus paying you enough for this?"

The white clad youth made no reply as he opened his menu and looked at the choices. The blond Arabian moved to do the same but stopped.

"This is all in French!" he exclaimed.

The green-eyed youth looked up.

"Ah, I can't read French," he explained hastily.

"Oh. I will translate." The youth did so, and Quatre soon had a list of some very tasty sounding meals to choose from.

The waiter returned to place the orders, and Trowa did so, speaking flawlessly the language of the restaurant. The waiter scribbled several notes and went off, leaving the pair alone.

"I had no idea you spoke French," Quatre stated. It seemed as good a place as any to start a conversation. Or a least what passed as a conversation when talking with Trowa Barton.

"I do."

"Do you speak anything else?"

"I am fluent in French and English. I am marginally so in Spanish and Italian. And I know a few words in German and Russian."

"Wow. That covers most of Europe. And here I was proud that I knew Arabic."

"Eh. Arabic is a difficult language to learn. The words and alphabet are very tricky. Be glad that you can speak it so well."

Quatre smiled at the compliment. "Thank you. Tell me, what gave you the idea to come to a French restaurant? I've never had that type of cuisine before."

Trowa closed his eyes and crossed his arms. A good sign that he was thinking of something important. After a few minutes, he looked to the blond youth.

"When I was planning this day, I realized that I didn't know what your favorite things were. I know what you like, but not what you love. So I am taking a chance and giving you instead my favorite things."

"Oh Trowa," Quatre whispered, realizing just how much this day meant to the young pilot. "Thank you." That boyish giddy feeling bubbled up in him again.

"I hope that you will like it."

"Oh yes," the Arabian replied. "I will. Just that fact that you're here, that you're willing to share this with me. I will never forget this day." Quatre made a mental note to remember exactly what Trowa's favorites were as the afternoon went on.

The smallest vestiges of a smile crossed Trowa's lips, and Quatre rejoiced at such a rare occurrences.

The food arrived, and Quatre found himself overwhelmed with such new and different smell and tastes. Everything had a lush, juicy, mouth-watering quality; far different from the dry, spicy, middle-eastern dishes he was accustomed to. His palette was excited by new foods, even the old foods done in a new way. He continually stated that everything was delicious, and Trowa merely contented himself to listen. The afternoon was passing wonderfully. The giddy feeling just kept reaching new heights.

"Oi, Trowa," Quatre said, a thought entering his head. "You never struck me as the type for tuxedos and fancy restaurants. When did you ever go to one?"

"I haven't," the green eyed youth replied. "I wanted to make this day special for you. So I decided to give you what you were accustomed to." Trowa paused, a faint smile on his face. "It took me over an hour to figure out how to put this on," he added, indicating his white tux. Despite the serious atmosphere, Quatre laughed.

"Was that a joke?" he asked between giggles. "From you?" His joyous feelings raised again.

This time Trowa laughed, and the young Arabian's ears danced in its melody. It was so rare to hear the other boy do so; it was music to his ears.

* * *

After the last of the meal had come and gone, and Quatre felt sure that he couldn't eat another bite, Trowa took the check and then lead Quatre back outside to the Baghdad heat. The taller pilot walked at a slightly quicker pace than normal, and Quatre half jogged to keep up.

"Are we going to be late?"

Trowa looked up to the sky. "No. I do not believe so."

It was a relatively short walk. He had lead Quatre to a recently built music hall. Quatre had learned about it a few weeks ago in the papers. Then he realized something.

"Hey, aren't they having their grand opening today? Or something like that?"

"Yes."

"The tickets to get in here were sold out months ago! And at a high price to. Trowa, how long have you been planning this?"

The youth did not reply and instead produced tickets from one of his pockets and showed them to a man at the gate. The man stamped it like one would at an amusement park and the pair navigated their way through the complex array of roped off halls and stairs. Quatre was sure they had gotten lost until they emerged at a private booth, much like the one they had at the restaurant. It overlooked the entire music hall.

Quatre couldn't believe Trowa was doing all this just for him. Expense didn't seem to be a problem and Quatre's feelings of happiness just kept rising to new levels he had never felt before. Every time he thought he couldn't get any happier, Trowa surprised him again.

"What a view!" Quatre exclaimed, once again that boyish awe depicted on his face. He couldn't help feeling like a child at Christmas. He was receiving such wondrous and beautiful gifts. His emotions seemed super charged, just ready to explode, but they didn't. He wondered briefly if Trowa felt similarly. He looked over to the silk haired boy to try to read his face. But it was expressionless as always.

At around three, the lights finally dimmed and the curtain was raised. A full orchestra was onstage, tuning their instruments. A tall man with wild gray hair made his was to the front, obviously the maestro.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began. He gave a small speech about what an honor it was to be here and how much this music meant to him. He ended quickly, however and turned his back to the audience, raising his hands and beginning the show. The first song played was Pachebal Cannon, by Tchaikowski.

"Classical?" Quatre whispered.

"Not all, but a significant part," Trowa replied.

The music was spectacular. The maestro masterfully guided the orchestra through magnificent pieces of music, ranged from classics, to famous movie themes, to even one or two pop culture. It was a splendid mix, and Quatre enjoyed himself thoroughly.

"Are these all your favorite songs?" he asked after the theme of Mr. Holland's Opus.

"Most yes. These songs are preferable to some of the others that I could listen to."

"I know what you mean. I feel so relaxed right now. I can't explain it. It's like when my heart is slowing down just before I go to sleep. I don't want to move or go anywhere or do anything. I just want to stay here forever with you."

"The maestro's about to say something," Trowa interrupted. Quatre was a little hurt by the insensitivity. Here he was telling the green-eyed youth how he was feeling and he passed it up to listen to the maestro.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Shortly after I accepted the honor of performing this concert, a boy came to me with a sheet of music. He asked me to play it at the end of this performance. Now I want you to know that I normally do not take requests. In fact I have a reputation in the music community for laughing in someone's face when they do so."

Quatre giggled but Trowa quieted him.

"But then I looked at the music. I have never seen such a beautiful piece before in my life. The boy had no title for it, and I choose to honor him and not give it one. So, against my will, I give you an untitled masterpiece by a nameless boy." He again raised his hand and the music began to play.

"Trowa-" Quatre started as he realized what was being played. "That's-"

"Our song, yes," he replied. The green-eyed youth turned. "Was I right to do that?"

"Oh, Trowa. Yes." Quatre felt new levels of emotion as their simple duet of flute and violin were accompanied by an orchestra. It was the most beautiful gift he had ever been given to date. And still there was more in store that he did not know. The music enveloped him and he pictured the music as he always did. If filled him in cool, measured bars, and he was content. More than content. He had never felt this way before. He absently placed a hand over his heart. It felt so good. He wanted to listen to this forever. He could feel everything. The emotions of the audience, the thrill of the maestro, the concentration of the players. It was beautiful. More than beautiful. It was perfect.

"Trowa, this is the best day I've ever had," he said as the music came to a climax. The entire crowd came to a standing ovation.

"There is still one more surprise."

Quatre blinked. "There's more? What could possibly top that?"

"Come and see."

It was early evening now, and the summer sun was beginning to drop in the sky. Trowa lead the way back to the car and began to drive again. He made their way through the city and back out into the desert, following a nondescript road.

"Where are we going now?" Quatre asked.

Trowa glanced at his watch. "You will see soon." They drove for almost an hour before the car came to a stop. Quatre did not recognize this part of the desert. As he stepped out of the car, a distinct smell reached his nostrils.

"We're on the coast?"

"Follow me." Trowa walked slowly up a small sand dune, his white tux crisp and angelic in comparison to the golden sand. Quatre nodded and obeyed, walking after him in the cool evening air. Upon cresting it, the young Arabian saw the most beautiful vision he had ever come across. Trowa moved ahead and sat down on the sandy rock.

Beyond him was the sea in all its glory. And the sun was setting into it.

The sky was afire in deep pinks and oranges and yellows. Purple clouds lazily made their way across the sky, taking their turn to say goodnight to the sun as she enveloped herself in the cool blanket of the ocean. Seagulls flew up and played with each other in the evening air. The water itself roared its farewell as well, crashing upon the coast to make room for the sun as she descended, filled with the warm colors of the sun

It was all so marvelous. Quatre once again felt those high emotions. He was speechless. He wasn't even aware of sitting down by Trowa. His joy hit the roof.

"In my life," the pilot began with a halted speech. "There have very few things that I have ever considered truly my own." Quatre looked to him. "This," he said, waving vaguely to the sunset. "This is one of them."

Quatre's heart stopped. "And you were willing to share it with me?"

Trowa nodded.

Quatre was touched beyond words. His joy went through the roof.

* * *

Everything went white. All sound disappeared, aside from the rapid beating of his own heart. Quatre's mind shut down as emotions washed over him so fast that had his mind _been_ working, it would not have been able to register them. Hot, soft, loving emotions rushed over the Arab, his kokoro no uchuu beat faster and faster. Everything seemed to hit him in on fluid motion and one thought made itself known in Quatre's mind.

_He's the one._

"Quatre?" The voice seemed so far away, he wasn't sure if he'd actually heard it. The warm feelings spread over him again.

"Quatre? Are you alright?"

The youth blinked as his mind started to function again, though those feelings of white stayed with him. He saw Trowa sitting beside him, the boy's eyes filled with worry. The sun was now much lower in the sky; the stars were starting to make themselves known. The white clad youth stood out in the dark, late evening setting. A chill wind came up and Quatre shivered. Trowa moved to take his jacket off but the Arab motion him not to.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It all just swept over me. Today, everything you've done for me. I just got caught up in my emotions."

"So," Trowa started. "Do you.. .is it. . .do you like it?" He looked to Quatre with nervous eyes.

"Like it?" Quatre blinked, wondering if he was still experiencing his epiphany. "Like it?" A harsh tone slipped unintentionally into his voice. Trowa looked away, his eyes sad. "Trowa, I LOVE it!" The blond youth threw his arms around the other boy. "No one has ever shared something so intimately private with me. Trowa, you've made me feel so happy and loved and glad and I don't know what else."

Quatre suddenly realized how vastly inappropriate the motion was, and pulled away, his cheeks red in embarrassment. He straightened and added more formally, "Trowa, you have done me a great honor, and I thank you for it." There. That sounded much better.

He looked up to see the boy's response. Trowa stared at him with obvious surprise on his face. Shock may have been a better word for it. He stared at Quatre, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth several times, as if trying to say something, but nothing came out.

"Trowa?" the Arab asked. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."

The youth blinked. "N-no. It's not that."

"Well, then what? I must've done something to make you look so shocked."

"It's just. . ." Trowa paused, lost in thought, trying to find the right words. Quatre gave him time. He knew how hard it was for the circus performer to open up. He turned and looked out to the stars as they multiplied and gathering into clusters and constellations. Quatre thought he saw one that looked like himself and Trowa.

"I have been very nervous about today," the other boy said. "I wanted to give you something to remember, and I had no idea how to go about it. You have done so much for me and I wanted to give something back. But, as I said earlier, I didn't know what your favorite things were. When I decided to give you mine, I had no idea how you would take it. I had these pictures in my mind of you hating French cuisine, or resenting having our song played by an orchestra. I kept expecting you to take my heart and break it."

"Trowa," Quatre said softly. "You know I would never do that."

"No, I didn't," he replied, a catch in his voice. The young Arab saw that he was trying very hard not to cry. He was desperately keeping his mask in place, and it was a loosing battle. Quatre reached out and put his arm around the youth's shoulders.

"I've never given myself to anyone," he continued. "I was so scared when I was driving up here. . .my heart was in my throat the whole way. Then you saw it and didn't say anything. . .you have always been so expressive, and the silence was killing me." Trowa let out a sob but shook his head, pausing to keep in control. "And then you said you loved it," he continued, a firmer sound in his voice. "You said that I honored you." Trowa looked to Quatre. "No one's has ever said that to me. And I just. . ." His resolution started to break again.

"Trowa," the Arab said, squeezing him closer. "It's okay to take you mask off. You can give yourself to me without worry. I won't break your heart. I promise."

The vulnerable youth looked at him, uncertainty filling his eyes. A single tear slid down his face.

"Trowa," he said again. "You don't have to be alone anymore."

That last, gentle push was all the white clad youth needed. He buried his face into Quatre's shoulder and wept uncontrollably. The solitude, the pent up emotions of an entire lifetime came flowing out of Trowa as he finally broke down. Quatre held him, glad that the desert had shown him an oasis of such beauty. The beauty of Trowa's heart. It was such a delicate, vulnerable thing. The young Arabian promised himself that he would never break it. His kokoro no uchuu opened, accepting Trowa with open and unrestrained love.

"I'm here Trowa," he whispered. "I will always be here. Never forget that."

"I've been so alone," he sobbed, unable to articulate anything else. Quatre hugged the boy. He swayed back and forth, like a mother holding a child, cooing and comforting such a delicate and giving heart. He swore that Trowa would never have to be alone again. His life had been to hard for such a good person, and Quatre determined to give the youth what he deserved. A life of happiness. Of laughter. Of giving. A life that they'd both been denied. He would make it happen. No matter what it took, Quatre would make the two of them happy.

Neither of them would be alone anymore.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
